You Are Still Human
by JSMac
Summary: No, actually, I lied. You're not.
1. Wheatley Signs a Paper

**Hey, guys! This is my first Portal fiction. Though I've organized it into chapters, since it's too long to be a oneshot, it's not going to be novel-length. So don't not read it because you think you're not (or I'm not) going to be able to finish it. Please review!**

On the wall there hung a poster: a campaign poster, portraying a man with a neat brown suit and equally neat brown hair. He was pointing angrily at an invisible audience, his mouth wide in a roar, his eyes fiery with passion, charisma glowing in his face. His very image seemed to radiate authority. And to top it all off, there was, on the bottom of the poster, written his slogan: "Criminals Will Pay!" Nobody in their right mind, nobody, wouldn't vote for him. He was, after all, John Collins, the incumbent sheriff of Hill Town, and there wasn't a chance in the world anybody else would steal his position. He was a glorious figure; he had brought justice to Hill Town for twenty years, and this year would be no different. Criminals had paid, and criminals would pay.

On the opposite side of the room was a window of bulletproof glass, behind which stood Wheatley Collins, the most notorious inmate at Hill Town prison. A traitor to his father's legacy. A mark of shame on his community. His face was solemn as an Aperture executive leaned on the desk and spoke to him in her disappointingly matter-of-fact voice, a voice which quite dampened Wheatley's spirits. He had really hoped she would cower, or approach him hesitantly, or at least let her voice falter a little bit. Didn't she know she was dealing with the most hated and feared criminal in the town? He set his jaw harder, trying to increase his threatening image. But it was hopeless; his thin face and quirky little beard wouldn't allow it. And she kept talking, unfazed.

"I'm telling you, it's your only chance to get out of here. We're offering you an important position at Aperture Laboratories. You can't claim you don't want it."

"I want freedom," he replied. That sounded profound, right? Like a true Patrick Henry. Did Patrick Henry have an Aussie accent?

"I know you want freedom," she continued, her pretty features diminished by the formal bun in which she had tied her hair, hair which would have been lush and full but just looked annoyingly neat. "And that's what I'm trying to tell you. You can have it. All you need to do is accept."

Wheatley's world-wise cynicism was shooting out of his face like a laser. "And what will I be doing at this Laboratory of yours?"

"I can't tell you now; it's classified." Typical. "But it's really important, and it's better than a death sentence."

"Yeah? And how much better? And how important? Do I get sixty dollars? Am I gonna be testing with a bunch of losers? From park benches?"

"Again, I can't tell you. But it's more important than that. Trust me. It's pretty important."

Wheatley weighed his options. Death or importance, the latter of which probably meant shooting a portal gun at walls for the rest of his life. He had chosen importance, however unimportant importance might be, but he couldn't let it show. He couldn't give up this rebellious streak on which he had embarked. He cast a dark glance at the executive. "No," he said, tersely.

"Let me take this moment to remind you that the job we are offering you is very important."

"I said, 'No,'" he repeated.

"It's important."

"No."

"Do you know how important you could be?"

"No. I mean yes. Yes, I know exactly how important I could be, and trust me, I don't care about-"

"Do you know how unimportant you are right now?"

Wheatley scoffed. It was time to release the charisma he had inherited from his father. He stood tall and cleared his throat. It was the most valiant clear he had ever uttered. "Is your mark on society defined by your importance? Or is your importance defined by your mark on society? Is a man defined by the role he plays behind the walls of a prison, or are the walls of a prison defined by the roles of the men within them? On the day when Horatio will bar heaven's gates and take down the fire which he struck-hold on, let me think for a minute here. I can't do this while you're looking. Really turn away for a second, I have to think-and the light of the future will forever burn in, um, heaven-crap-"

"Look, Wheatley," she interrupted, quite rudely, "face it. You are an inmate. You are sentenced to death. You don't want to stay here. Just sign my paper and we can get out of here."

"But hear me out."

She sighed. "I've been hearing you babble on about-"

"Ah, yeah, that'll do it. And the light of the future will forever burn in Babylon!"

She stared at him silently. "Really? Babylon?"

"Yeah. Babylon. Got a problem?"

"Babylon was used for centuries in literature as an archetype of evil and corruption. If the light of the future will forever burn in Babylon, then I think that means we're all pretty much fucked."

"Exactly. That's why you should let me out of here without making me sign that paper of yours. Don't you want a little adventure? Don't you want to be the rebellious heroine for a day? I mean, come on, breaking me out can't be that hard, and it'll be a hell of a lot more satisfying than doing things the accepted way. If I am Hamlet, you're Ophelia."

"That doesn't make any sense. Have you even read Hamlet?"

He looked pensively at the ceiling. "It's my favorite book."

"It's a play."

"Right. It's my favorite play, which I bought at a bookstore, so it was a book when I read it."

"So are you going to sign?" she asked. Obviously she was just too hurried to have any decent conversation regarding literature. She probably hadn't read _Hamlet_ herself. Wheatley had, and hadn't understood a word of it, but it was worth it because now he could tell people he had read _Hamlet _and they would look at him with admiration until he actually wanted to talk about it, at which point they would slowly start to back away and, about ten seconds into his spiel, turn and break into a run. This was because, Wheatley assumed, they were too ashamed to admit they hadn't actually read _Hamlet_.

Acknowledging the fact that this woman had no respect for this subtle exchange of intellect, this intricate crossing of motives, Wheatley reluctantly signed the paper and thrust it back at her. "Take this back to Babylon." He then turned and went to sulk pensively in his corner.

"That last comment almost made sense," she said. She waited for a reply, and when none came-Wheatley was over speaking with this product of a society too drunk on business to examine itself-she left out the door. In truth, she was surprised he signed the application at all.


	2. Caroline Harasses a Nurse

Hill Town Hospital. The name had a nice ring to it, Caroline thought. It sounded like something out of a kids' television show that went off the air after one episode. They had moved her here from the Aperture medical ward because, they claimed, the safety and sanitation procedures were not up to date and they couldn't let their own CEO risk compromising her health in that way.

If she was more likely to die there than in this parody of a hospital, then there was something seriously wrong with the laboratory's standards. In fact, she knew there was. There had always been. How many test subjects had died in the last too months? She didn't care to count. She felt sick just thinking about it. She was almost thankful that she would most likely die of leukemia within the course of the year. But then there was the slight possibility that there would be a miracle of modern medical science and she would live to be a useless figurehead another day, or that the monkeys at Aperture would succeed in turning someone's mind into a microchip and the process could be repeated on her, god forbid. In fact, her daughter was working on that right then.

If anyone found out that Chell was her biological daughter, she wasn't sure what she'd do. Because that meant Chell would probably inherit the company from her, like she had from Cave when he died. And though Caroline knew she would go down in the history books as a facilitator of what was possibly the most dubious science laboratory since some alchemist tried to mix human intestines with gunpowder to make gold, she didn't want Chell to meet the same fate.

It's why she had put the girl up for adoption when she was born. But the smart little peeve had found her way back, unfortunately, and now the seventeen year old child was pretending to be twenty-six under a fake name, working as an Aperture executive, just so she could see her mother. Clever little fucker. She had hoped her girl would be complacent and accepting so that she didn't end up living a life that consisted of watching other people waste their lives testing, but that didn't work out.

What exactly was Aperture even testing for anymore? First came the gels, then the military grade weaponry, then the portal technology. And all of them were successful products that needed no further-she hated the word-testing. Yet Aperture kept churning out these hellish rooms, these vast, complex puzzles that were supposed to reveal something, as Caroline had ever so vaguely collected, of technological as well as psychological significance. How she would love to put her late husband in one of those rooms, the hardest, most perilous of them, and watch him struggle with it for hours. And when he emerged, she would read him the results: "You're a terrible person. That's what it says. You're a terrible person. And we weren't even testing for that."

She realized, all too late, that she had said it aloud, and that a passing nurse was giving her strange looks. "That's right," she said, deciding to roll with it. What did she care what people thought now? "You're a terrible person. You should go home and kill yourself." The nurse continued to consider her, baffled. "I bet every patient of yours hates you. I bet they wish you would kill yourself. Because I certainly do." She realized how childish she was being. How childishly cruel, in a way her sweet little self twenty years ago would never even think of. Yet she continued. "All those poor people you wake up at one in the morning to check if they have a heartbeat or whatever. They hate you. All the-"

She was stopped short as the nurse gave a little exclamatory sob. She tried to regain composure, but it was hopeless. Crying, she fled from Caroline's sight, abandoning the cart she was pushing behind. "I didn't mean it," Caroline called. But it was too late.

She remained silent and relatively thoughtless for the next couple of hours. It shocked her just how volatile people could be. Sometimes she wondered if everyone in the hospital besides her should be moved to the mental ward. But then, she thought solemnly, there wouldn't be anyone to wake her up at one in the morning to check if she had a heartbeat. It was really important that someone was there to check. I mean, what would she do if she just forgot to keep it beating?

Luckily, a nurse, one that didn't have tears streaming down her cheeks, walked in before she could drown in her own brooding solitude. "Someone's here to see you," the nurse said in her dull voice.

Caroline gestured nonchalantly. "Let her in." She knew who it was. Sure enough, her daughter came bouncing youthfully in. "Can we have this door closed?" Caroline asked the nurse, not bothering to say hi to Chell first. The nurse, not even fazed by the patient's lack of hospitality towards her guest, complied so that the two could talk freely. "You have to stop seeing me so often. They keep a list of who comes to see who and-"

"Shh," Chell reprimanded softly. She sat down on the side of the bed. "You wouldn't believe who I met today."

Caroline was tired of hearing these stories. Aperture would always pick who they believed to be the scum of society to be there lab rats for the AI transfer. There were so many people who had been turned into corrupted cores: the homeless, the mentally ill, the Taco Bell workers.

"I met Wheatley Collins. John Collins' son. He was a complete idiot."

"Well, I'm glad to hear you're hanging around good company. What was he arrested for, anyway? John was supposedly too embarrassed for his family name to say. It's become somewhat of a town legend, but I'm sure he must've told you, if you were trying to do what I think you were trying to do."

A little smile planted itself on Chell's lips. "Jaywalking," she said. "And yes, I was trying to see if he wanted to fill the next core. Kind of depressing, that someone so entertainingly dumb should be turned into . . . well, you know."

Caroline was dumbfounded. "He's been sentenced to death for jaywalking?"

"Hey, John said he'd be tough on crime."


	3. Space Core Confirms a Fear

Wheatley followed Chell down the long hallway toward the core transfer center, whatever that was. It sounded important. Out windows he could get slight glimpses of what appeared to be testing rooms: white and gray walls, machinery of various sorts protruding from the sides and floors, the occasional pit of murky water. And there were also-this sent chills down Wheatley's spine-turrets, the kind that had been advertised on television for home defense, placed in various strategic spots. "Is that legal?" he asked Chell. Though he didn't know her name was Chell. He thought her name was Gertrude, because that's what the little pin on her jacket said.

"Is what legal?" she asked, not even bothering to turn around.

"Poking your test subjects full of bullets."

She laughed, in a bitter way. "It's okay. They signed a paper."

There was a sinking feeling in Wheatley's stomach. "I signed a paper."

"Don't stress about it; you didn't have much to lose," she reassured him. "You would have died if you stayed back there. Here, there's only a ninety-nine point nine percent chance that you'll end up as a bloody carcass, a mantis hybrid, a smear on the wall, or a defunct robot."

"A defunct robot?" he inquired. Maybe if he hadn't let flow the full force of his intellectual capacities at the prison, she would have more respect for his humanity right now; what he had needed, he decided, was regular, boring old charm to coax more cooperation of this...this...person. God, he was glad he wasn't speaking aloud. Anyway, all he was to her, after he had blown it yesterday, was some guy who jaywalked and didn't know what Babylon was. And probably hadn't read _Hamlet_. But she was wrong. He had read _Hamlet_, and he was convinced that his evolutionary masterpiece of a brain was just seeing hidden subtext that nobody else even cared enough to look for. And that's why people didn't want to talk to him about _Hamlet:_ they didn't comprehend it on the level that he did.

"What?" he asked when he realized she'd been speaking.

"I was talking for like two minutes straight. Don't ask me to repeat that."

Wheatley couldn't let himself look like any more of an idiot than he already did. "No, I was listening. I swear. It's just a habit of mine, to say, 'What?' after anything anyone says."

She finally turned around and stabbed him darkly with those sharp hazel eyes of hers. "Then why aren't you sweating? Or shaking? One of those would be the proper human reaction to what I just told you, if you've got some serious nerve. If you're weak of heart, then maybe you should be crying and assuming the fetal position. I suppose this transformation won't be much of a change for you, since you already qualify as something other than human."

"Transformation?"

"Ah, so you weren't listening," she concluded. "Good. I won't have to play the role of therapist until we get into the core transfer center."

He sort of got the idea where this was going. He was being turned into a robot. And, from the callous in her voice, it was likely that there were many who had gone before him and failed to complete the process. He tried to imagine his human body lying still, cold on a table, as his faceless mechanical self looked on. He had washed his hair this morning for the last time, shaved for nothing. But hey, at least he wouldn't need glasses anymore-that is, if the process was successful. Which it probably wasn't going to be. As they neared an elevator, Wheatley caught a glimpse of some spherical machines with lights of various colors, all heaped on top of each other in a glass case. He could hear voices murmuring from within, ever so faintly. He couldn't quite catch what they were saying, but he was pretty sure one was going on ceaselessly about space. Was it just his imagination, or did he see something about a week ago on the news about an astronaut who had gone missing? He shivered.

The elevator was rather small. He squeezed in alongside Chell, or rather, Gertrude, as he knew her. "Since I'm one of the last human beings you're ever going to talk to-I mean, you could survive, but it's highly unlikely-you might as well know my actual name. It's Chell. Please don't tell anyone."

He was a bit surprised by this heartfelt confession. "Okay," he said. What else does one say when someone unexpectedly tells one their name?

"Any secrets you'd like to tell me before you meet your doom? At least this doom is for science, whereas your other doom was for jaywalking."

"Actually yes, I do have some secrets I'd like to tell," he started. "You see, you know I was arrested for jaywalking. But-and my dad doesn't know about this, so don't tell him-that wasn't the only crime I committed. Honestly, I jaywalked twice. I got away with it the first time. But yes. That's my secret. I jaywalked, not once, but twice."

Her face got suddenly serious. "Your father. How does he feel about all this?"

"Well, he doesn't seem to approve of me jaywalking-"

"No, I mean, about your sentence."

Wheatley gulped. His heart was beating eight times as fast as it would have under normal circumstances. Twice because he was about to die; another twice because he was standing within a two inch radius of, he had to admit, the most attractive woman he had ever met; and yet another twice because she was asking him about his secrets. He realized he shouldn't really care about this and should be focusing his energies toward escaping, but what was a life on the run compared to a moment of bliss? He felt a little surge of joy at this. He had actually come up with something that sounded poetic and made sense.

"Your father?" she reminded him softly.

"Right. You know, he doesn't really seem to care. He just...sort of...he cares more about his job than he does about me." The pain of this fact suddenly struck him, and he began to weep. "He never did. No mercy. Never."

"You're probably wrong. He probably cares about you more than you know, and just wants to show you equal treatment. Maybe he'll learn from this and change his mind. If he has any sense at all, he'll see the repercussions of what he does."

"Problem is, uh, he doesn't see the repercussions of what he does. He is, really, just as moronic as I am, I think."

She smiled at him. "You're not a moron. You're just blatantly pretentious."

Wheatley was silent for a moment. This was a really long elevator ride. He wondered if the elevator was programmed to keep going until everyone inside stopped talking. However, if they didn't stop soon, the elevator was going to run out of shaft. He scolded himself for not making sense. "Thanks," he said. "You know, do you have this talk with everyone you take down here?"

"I like to give people a clear conscience before they lose it altogether." Resentment boiled in her voice, and her eyes flashed with hate. Hate for the atrocity for which she worked. Hate for herself. His face lost its luster, not because of the expression on hers, but rather because, for a brief moment, for once in his life, he had felt special. But nope. Not Wheatley. He was doomed to be the most unspecial person in this unspecial world, which was, after all, about to dissolve around him. "You look disappointed," Chell commented.

"Well, honestly, I am," he replied.

She sighed. "Yeah, I'll have to admit I give pretty much everyone the end-of-your-life talk. It gets rather heavy after a while. But I do it anyway, because I think they deserve it. And you especially. You know, you might not give the most desirable first impression, but-"

"But what?" Wheatley interrupted. He was looking forward to this next part.

"I'm not going to tell you if you interrupt me like that."

The elevator reached its destination.


	4. John Disturbs a Slumber

Caroline's phone went off at precisely one in the morning. Karma, if she'd ever seen it. She also happened to notice, as she was waking up, that she'd left the television on. It was tuned to a news channel, on which a reporter was explaining that a nurse from Hill Town Hospital had committed suicide earlier that evening. She quickly flipped it off before she could see any more, hoping desperately that it was a different nurse. It had to be. She prayed that someone would spontaneously come to her room and tell her that it was a different nurse (something like, "That was a different nurse," would do), for the sake of her clear conscious. Who could she ask? Surely someone could give her a name, an adequate place to start. Oh, right. The television. But then there was also the chance that it would tell her the death was her fault, so she left it off and tried to sooth her troubled mind and go back to sleep. But wait; the phone was still ringing. Fuck.

"Hello?" she asked, making her voice sound as groggy as possible. Maybe she could guilt-trip whoever was calling into hanging up. How dare you call the leukemia-ridden, stress-ridden CEO of Aperture and rid her from her much needed rest? How dare you disturb her slumber?

An equally disgruntled voice answered. "Is this Caroline Johnson?" it asked. "Because I have a few things to say to you." Caroline knew this voice, and she grimaced at it. Of all people that could have called her, why did it have to be him?

"Yes, this is Caroline."

"Well, if I understand correctly, my son is under the custody of your...science...people. Wheatley Collins. You know of this?"

She remembered what her daughter had said earlier that day. "Yes, I know."

"And may I remind you that he is legally still a minor, at the age of seventeen, and that I never signed any damn paper of yours?"

"No, you may not," Caroline blurted. "It's one in the morning, and, if you don't know, people usually like to sleep at this hour. Maybe if you learned from this social norm and got some sleep yourself you wouldn't be quite so grumpy right now-"

"Ms. Johnson," he started again, angrily.

"Please, call me Caroline."

"Okay, Caroline," he spat. The name sounded awkward and nasty on his tongue. Caroline had never been addressed in that tone before. Nobody had dared. But she supposed that nobody had ever dared berate Mr. Collins like she had, either. She shut her eyes in disgust; not at John in particular, but at the entire situation. She wished Aperture would just let her die of leukemia like a normal human being. "I guess I'll remind you anyway. So now I'm reminding you. Wheatley is still under my jurisdiction."

"Okay, John-"

"It's Mr. Collins."

"Okay, Mr. Collins. I'll send someone to meet you at the prison tomorrow so you can sign the papers."

"This is not about papers!" His voice, at unreasonably high volumes, was barely intelligible over the phone. Caroline hung up. She had given him what he wanted, hadn't she? Now, he would have a chance to put his son back behind bars. And he would be happy, the soulless arrest-o-holic. Because criminals would pay or whatever. She waited in case another call came. After about two minutes, she was pretty sure she was safe, so she let herself drift back into a comfortable slumber, with pleasant dreams of dieting gels and mantis men and-

Fuck.

"Yes, John?"

"Never in the last twenty years of my life has someone had the nerve to hang up on me."

"And never in the last twenty years of mine has someone called at one in the morning."

"Well, this is a first, I guess. Hooray. Throw a party. First one in the morning call. Anyway, as I was saying, Wheatley is my son, and I get to decide what happens to him. And I have decided, officially, that he should go through with the punishment that every other criminal must suffer. If all criminals knew they would get to be important people at your...science...place, then what do you think this city would look like? That's right. The streets would be littered with crime. I won't stand for this, especially not when the subject in question is my own son!" She opened her mouth to speak, but he wasn't done with his rant. Caroline wondered if she should go to sleep again and set an alarm for when he was done. Unfortunately, the timer on her phone was only programmed to a twenty-four hour clock. "My son will get what he deserves. He has, by breaking the laws which have bound this community together, shamed our city, our judicial system, and my family name as well as set a poor example for all youth of his age. If he does not face the consequences, then what is to be said about the others? If you think you can appeal to me through some blubbery paternal feelings or whatnot, then you're wrong. I stand for justice, for truth, and for a tightly knit community that will uphold our values, not compromise them. That's right. Our values are what hold us together. And those who choose to ignore them or seek to change them will feel the full force of-"

"He jaywalked."

"Exactly."

"He walked across the street in a place there wasn't a crosswalk."

"There's a reason we have crosswalks, you know."

"And what reason is that?"

"Safety. I want my son do be safe. Wouldn't you, if you had a son?"

"You sentenced him to death. Is being dead safe?"

There was a long stretch of silence. Maybe there was a heart somewhere inside that cold chest of steel. She waited smugly for an answer, glad that she had shut him up. After what seemed like hours, one came: "Yes."

Then he hung up.


	5. Hugh Activates a Machine

Outside the elevator there was a chair, like one might see in a dentist's office, with various machinery poised over it. There were two people waiting on either side of the chair: a man in a lab coat with wild white hair, quite the archetype of a mad scientist, stood by and gestured nervously for Wheatley to sit; another man, broad-shouldered and big-chinned, wearing a formal black suit, simply nodded. Wheatley grimaced at Chell. He was more nervous than ever, especially since a slight hissing noise seemed to be coming from the wall opposite of where he was standing. A complex network of threatening machinery was tolerable; add a slight, ominous hissing and it was too much. Chell cleared her throat when Wheatley didn't do as directed. "This is, um, Nobel Prize winner Dr. Hugh Hopkins. He's the executive testing room designer," she said, gesturing to the man in the lab coat. Wheatley hesitantly extended his hand, but he got no response. Maybe he wasn't on a hand-shaking basis yet. Probably never would be.

"Ah, so you're the guy who designs the testing rooms," Wheatley commented. That sounded dumb.

Chell rolled his eyes at Wheatley so that the others couldn't see. "And this is Thaddeus Saxton," she continued, motioning to the other. "Executive strategy coordinator."

"Ah, what does he do?" Wheatley asked. That also sounded dumb.

"He, uh..." She turned to Thaddeus. "You can take this one." Thaddeus just nodded politely. His hands seemed to be superglued together in front of him, and his elbows seemed to be permanently fixed at one hundred and twenty degrees. His feet also might have been nailed to the floor at shoulder-width. "Well, what he does is, nobody really knows what he does. But he makes a heck of a lot of money doing it. And his job is really important. He also designs test chambers on the side."

"And, ah, what do you do?" That wasn't him, he swore. It was someone else talking through his mouth.

She didn't seem to be taken aback at all by the question. "That's the problem," Chell explained. "Nobody's really sure what I do, either."

"Not even you?"

"I've tried to figure it out a couple times, but it makes my head hurt."

"Anyway, shall we commence?" Dr. Hopkins asked in a heavy German accent.

Wheatley sighed. That chair didn't look inviting. "Okay, sure." An insane little giggle escaped Hopkins' mouth, which he stifled quickly with the palm of his hand. As Wheatley, ever so slowly, lowered himself into the chair, Dr. Hopkins started touching random pieces of machinery to keep himself busy, to use his nervous energy. "So, um, explain this process," Wheatley requested. That might have been a mistake.

Dr. Hopkins looked him in the eyes. It was truly terrifying. "Using levels of radiation higher than gamma, we can achieve a full portrait of a human brain at any given time and have it digitized. The program then functions exactly as that person would. It's remarkable, really. I came up with the concept. It's what I got my Nobel Prize for. Only now are we putting it to practical use." He walked behind the chair. Wheatley couldn't see what he was doing, but that hissing wasn't getting any quieter. "There is, however, a certain side effect you should probably know about."

"Yeah? What's that?" His voice was about two octaves above his normal range.

"The radiation is so strong, it practically incinerates each brain cell as it gathers data. So if the data is corrupted, you'll never quite be yourself again, I'm afraid. We can take you out, but we can't put you back."

"And, looking at the way things are going, I'm assuming there hasn't yet been a successful transfer."

The executive testing room designer laughed maniacally. "Quite right, my friend. Let's hope you are the first!"

Wheatley shit his pants. The feces was warm and soft under his buttocks. It was soothing, in a way. Above him, machinery started to whir, and lights began to flicker into life as they slowly descended toward his face. He barely noticed somebody clasping his arms and legs to the chair. There was a slight prickling feeling on his scalp. "Uuaaauuooouuuuummmm," he said.

He heard a chuckle, a deep, suppressed guffaw befitting, Wheatley thought, of Thaddeus's size and stature. "Don't judge." It was Chell's voice, though distorted, distanced, by the metal dome which was apparently covering his face. "It's what you would say if you were in his situation." The hissing came to a peak, then slowly began to die. Wheatley braced himself for pain, for shock, for death, for whatever might come, gritting his teeth as the metal dome loomed ominously above him. He thought he felt pain, so he screamed. He could feel the snap of neurons fizzing away, taste the radiation (which tasted a bit like lemons) on his tongue. His senses slowly faded, and his entire body began to convulse as its leader began to gradually melt away. Never again would this body move of its master's will. Never again would-

"Wheatley?" Chell asked. "Wheatley, are you alright?"

"What?" he asked back. He could move his fingers. Glorious. But that shit was starting to get uncomfortable.

"You know that nothing's happening yet, right?"

"Yes, I was well aware."

"Well, we can't carry through with the procedure right now, unfortunately. I just got an urgent page from our CEO that your father has yet to approve of this, and that you are, technically, a minor. Liability issues."

"You didn't already know that I was seventeen?"

"I thought you were around twenty-six."

"Wasn't there a paper that said so?"

"Yeah. The one you signed. You think I bothered to read that?"

"No, but...can you just take this damn bowl off my face?" He heard the click of a couple buttons as the dome came away. "There. Now we can talk like civilized people." He glanced around the room. Dr. Hopkins was sulking in a corner, looking rather upset about the discontinuation of his little experiment. Thaddeus was still nailed to his spot on the floor. "That's better. Now, did anybody bring an extra pair of pants?"


	6. Author Addresses a Complaint

**Yeah, I know, kind reviewers, I did get unnecessarily graphic in the last chapter. If you really want me to, I can change around a couple of adjectives as to make it less disgusting, or remove it entirely. But I like how the sensations he experiences as a result of the...thing show** **the rise and fall of his fear in a manner I could never get away with in more serious writing (ironically, this turned out to be a more serious chapter; I didn't plan it that way, but that's how it went).  
**

That stupid phone rang again. Caroline picked it up. "Yes, John?"

"I hope you've called off this little experiment of yours, because I just signed a paper to officially disallow it."

"Yes, I've called it off. Now you can happily send your son to his doom."

"Don't get smart with me. I'm serious."

"I know you're serious. A little too serious, I might add."

Caroline, personally, was sick of her own voice. She sounded like a bitter old lady. And she supposed she was, but that didn't make it any better. Fifty years of guilt and resentment had consigned her to a state of mind more appropriate of someone above ninety. At least, she thought, she had led a full and-as most would say-successful existence, if not a pleasant one. She braced herself for another retort from John.

"You haven't even stopped to consider your own disposition toward all this, have you? Your facility is a monster. It ruins lives. Kills people. And you think I'm the one in the wrong for carrying through with my word?"

"You and your attitude towards crime has killed just as many people as my company has."

"Shut up. Just shut up." He wasn't yelling yet. But his voice was sizzling, boiling over. Caroline was afraid her voice would be the first to explode. "You haven't thought a day in your life about all the corpses filled with bullets that-"

"No, you shut up." Caroline managed to keep her voice steady and stern, but it was volatile. She sounded confident, but she felt weak. This argument was tearing her apart, taking all the little pieces of her guilt from her previous years and shaping them into a mirror, starkly clean and seamless so that she could see every ugly detail of herself inside of it. "If you had any sense at all, you'd..." She'd run out of words to say.

"Yes?" John demanded on the other end.

"Self-righteous son of a bitch," she managed. "I face self-hate every day. I regret every moment of my miserable life. But you; you're not even capable of regret, are you?"

Silence. Then he spoke. "Do you think I want Wheatley's life to end like this?" His voice was low and threatening. "I don't. I wanted him to lead a successful life. I wanted a son who would carry on my tradition. But I have made a mistake that I must pay for. Yell at me all you want, but I'm just following through with a promise I made, one that I hate to keep but I must."

She wasn't quite sure how to respond. "I..." she began. This was just another ploy. She could handle this. But with the relatively recent arrival of her daughter and the hopes she had for her, Caroline was entirely dismantled by John's words. "I don't know what I can say. It's not too late for your son."

"I can't revoke the law, Caroline. I made a rash decision by setting this fanatical law in place and I have to face the consequences."

"Don't make Wheatley suffer for what you've done."

"Many others have. Many others."

"Then change it. Somehow, you mustered the votes to set that law in place. Actually, no, you probably didn't. I don't know what you did. Or why you did it, you moron. But that's behind you. Learn a lesson from this. You must have the power to repeal it."

A nurse entered. "Ms. Johnson? You have two visitors."

Caroline looked at the nurse, waited a couple seconds. Then she gave an affirmative nod. "I'm sorry, John, but I have to go."

"Alright," John said. He was acting civil; what a relief. "Do whatever you want with Wheatley, I guess. I'll do what I can." He hung up.

Caroline sighed as Chell and Wheatley entered the room. She didn't know the latter, but she felt she could safely assume who he was. "Hi Mom," Chell said, in a voice that was almost lighthearted. Caroline could have cried, but she fought not to.

"Hi."

"This is Wheatley. I thought he should get a chance to meet the woman he's dying for. You know, since these tests are intended to find a way to free you of your leukemia, after all." So she wasn't cheerful. She was bitter, sardonically so.

"Wheatley." She offered a hand for him to shake, which he accepted. He tried to smile, but it was impossible.

"So, you're the CEO of Aperture?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"...Cool..." He stood there awkwardly, glancing around the room. Caroline could tell this was the last place he wanted to be. "And...sorry about your leukemia."

"Thanks. And sorry about your sentence."

"Nah, it's nothing."

"It's a death sentence."

"Okay, yeah, it's something."

Silence prevailed. What a mess. What an awkward mess.

"I've talked things out with your dad. He says we can go ahead with the procedure if we want."

"Oh, thank you," Wheatley muttered.

More silence.

"Anyway..." Then something struck her. She turned to Chell. "He knows I'm your mother?"

She shrugged. "Thought I might as well tell him. Can't hurt much really. I mean, it's not like he's got time to spread rumors."


	7. Chell Kisses a Moron

"I really don't want to go in there."

"I know you don't. I don't want to either."

"Can't we wait just a while longer?"

"We've waited two days."

"Just one more day. I just want one more day."

Chell and Wheatley stood outside the elevator. "You're pitiful," she said, though she knew this was a lie. He was actually very courageous, she had to admit. The machine scared the hell out of her, and she wasn't even the one having her soul sucked out. That metal bowl was the worst part. It turned its victims into something other than human every time it descended upon their terrified faces, and when it lifted, they were gone entirely. Empty husks. Eyes open wide, mouths drooping. Dead. The only reason she was calling Wheatley pitiful was to prod him forward, to accelerate the process. She rather liked Wheatley, she had decided, and she wanted to spare herself the pain of watching him die in the future by facing that pain now. Sort of selfish, she realized. Not really in favor of Wheatley savoring his last moments.

Wheatley's knees were shaking. He took a deep breath to steady himself. "Fine. I'll go in. I guess I'll get some time on the elevator to contemplate my final moments. Or maybe I shouldn't think about it. Maybe I just shouldn't think about it."

"There were a few upgrades Dr. Hopkins installed in the system to help soothe fear after your behavior last time, you know."

"My behavior last time?"

"You know, the way you..." She glanced around awkwardly, hoping she didn't have to spell it out. That would be most unpleasant.

Wheatley's face reddened in realization. "Oh, yeah, that."

"That."

Wheatley took two more deep breaths before clasping shut his mouth and plunging headfirst in the elevator, as if he were trying to retrieve a valuable object from the depths of a swimming pool. Chell followed him in; much more gracefully, one might add. "You don't have to hold your breath," she said.

Wheatley let it go, panting. "I did it!" he huffed. "I stepped inside. Oh, god, I don't think I'm gonna be able to step out. I'm gonna panic, Chell. I'm gonna panic."

"The elevator takes about five minutes to get to the core transfer center. If you need to panic, go ahead."

But he didn't panic. Instead, he bowed is head, as if preparing for prayer. "Chell, let me apologize for being such a moron. I'm not usually this way. It's just I've had some really traumatic experiences lately and I'm not really at my best. So don't think of me as a moron when I'm gone. Because I'm actually usually very intelligent and decent."

"Wheatley-"

"I'm sorry," he said. He looked truly remorseful.

"Wheatley, listen," she said again. She made her voice as soft and caring as she could. "I don't think you're a moron. Honestly, I don't."

His mood seemed to lift, if ever so slightly. "You don't?"

"No, I don't." An idea dawned on her. "Hey, I was just thinking-"

"About what?"

"So, don't take this the wrong way, but however this experiment turns out, you're not going to be attached to a human figure for long. And I was wondering if you'd like to, you know, make use of the pleasures one can only gain from an organic body before you have to leave it behind forever."

He looked interested, yet puzzled. "We've only got four minutes and twenty-two seconds, you do realize."

"Oh, that? No, I didn't mean that. I was just going to kiss you, that's all."

"Okay, now that's a bit more practical," he said distantly, nodding.

There was an awkward pause.

"Uh, so you wanna kiss me, or what?"

"Well, I'd love to, but where do you start with these things? I've never actually had a girlfriend, to be honest, and I'm not sure how to do it."

She smiled. "There's not much of a technique to it. People say there is, but there's really not. You just sort of start in and see where it goes. Like this." Chell threw her arms around Wheatley and kissed him, her body pressed tightly to his, her hand on the back of his head, stroking his hair. He was reluctant at first, stiff. But gradually, his lips started to move with hers and his hands settled lightly on her waist in a way that, she had to confess, made her insides jump with excitement.

"We've got forty-six seconds left," Wheatley noticed, cutting the bliss short at the three minutes and thirty-six seconds.

Chell looked toward the ceiling pensively, still in Wheatley's embrace. "I was thinking that maybe we could get away with removing an item of clothing or two, but perhaps we should play it safe. Don't want to get caught red-handed."

So the two separated, innocently waiting out the remaining time. "I love you," Chell tried. And she meant it. She had really grown to adore Wheatley, despite his quirks.

"I...I..."

"Don't be shy, you can say it."

"I love you too?"

"Don't be so unsure about it!"

Wheatley straightened himself and cleared his throat. "I love you."

"Not so affected. Say it like you mean it."

"I love you."

"No, scratch that. Don't say it _like_ you mean it. Actually mean it."

He smiled at her. It wasn't a broad smile; it was actually quite thin and nervous. But the affection in his eyes was genuine, and behind those eyes Chell saw a person she would never have guessed was there the day she met him in that sad little prison. "Perfect," she whispered.

The elevator door opened, and the two were thrust into the dark room full of levers and buttons and wires and metal and pure, unadulterated evil. Inside stood Hugh Hopkins, Thaddeus Saxton, and Caroline Johnson. Hugh stood ready at his machine, conveniently located behind the chair at an angle that didn't permit the operator to view his victim. Thaddeus stood, nailed to the floor in his usual spot. Caroline was sitting in the chair. "I thought I might as well get a feel for the thing, since I'll most likely be sitting in it shortly after you."

"Are you implying..." Wheatley started. "Do you think the transfer will be successful this time?"

"Probably not." She shrugged. "Still, I'm sick of waiting. Even if you end up dead, I'm doing it anyway. I couldn't stand to have yet another person to be killed for my sake."

"But I couldn't bear to see you go in such a terrible way," Hugh cried, his voice brimming with emotion.

"Yet you can bear to see Wheatley go in the same terrible way. Stop trying to kiss up to the CEO and do your job." She stepped out of the chair and beckoned for Wheatley to take her place. "Good luck."

"Thanks. I'll need it." Wheatley slipped himself comfortably into his seat. He felt inexplicably calm. Nothing could possibly make him feel any calmer except-

"To help you remain tranquil in the face of almost certain death, smooth jazz will be deployed in three...two...one," a voice said over the intercom as the harmonious strains of Kenny G flowed out of the speakers and into Wheatley's ears.

"Oh, this helps. This helps a lot."

"I'm glad it does," Hugh said. "I thought it was a good idea, after your little incident last time." He burst out in a fit of laughter.

"He's going to lose most everything. Why don't you let him keep his dignity, at the very least?" Caroline asked, leaning nonchalantly against the chair. Hugh silenced himself. "Good. Now, Gertrude, what exactly is your role here?"

Chell was taken aback by her tone. "I can leave, if you want me to."

"Yes, please. In fact, go home. Take the day off."

She gulped, surprised by her mother's request. But she didn't ask any more questions. Rather, she bent over Wheatley, touched him gently on the chin, and gave him one last kiss for everyone to see before turning on her heels and striding out of the room without even a look back at Caroline.

"I had my suspicions," Caroline muttered, still leaning on the chair. "Now why don't we start this thing?"

Some terrible things happened. Wheatley got stuck under a bowl. Hugh laughed maniacally. Caroline boiled herself in a nice big pot of resentment and self-loathing. Thaddeus remained nailed to the floor. And about two hours later, the process was complete, and Wheatley was, thankfully, very much not dead. "I am very much not dead!" he exclaimed from his position in the bowels of Aperture's AI system.

"Which means I'm probably going to be very much not dead in a few seconds as well," Caroline said bitterly.

Meanwhile, Wheatley was giggling to himself. "I've never been so happy to be not dead! Where's Chell? We have to tell her that I am very much not dead."

"She'll find out soon enough."

Hugh bleated, completely out of the blue. "Uh, what was that about?" Wheatley asked.

"I did it." The Nobel Prize winner's voice was high and elated. "I fucking did it! I managed a transfer, full and complete! You, dear test subject, think and talk like a human! It's fucking marvelous, that's what it is!"

"I don't believe the profanity is necessary," Caroline said.

"Sorry."

"Can we get this over with? And shut Wheatley off, will you? He's just going to talk over the music, and I'm rather enjoying this song." She plopped herself in the chair as Thaddeus gazed curiously on. "I was being sarcastic. You don't have a personality, so I'm afraid you'll never understand people who do. No, I actually hate this song. Some Metallica or ACDC would be nice, though."

"You want me to put some on?" Hugh's voice came from behind her.

"Sure, go ahead."

"Alright, now brace yourself. I'm going to attempt a manual override on this music." He laughed at his own joke.

Wheatley laughed along. "That was a good one. I'm gonna use that sometime."

"Hey, I told you to shut him off!"

"Sorry." In a couple of seconds, Wheatley's voice and Kenny G's saxophone were replaced by the angry screams of electric guitars. And, in what seemed to Caroline like an equally short amount of time, her human body was replaced by the entire facility. Not only had they preserved her consciousness, but they had given it ultimate power. Just as she had expected.

"I can feel everything," she said. "Every test room. Every gel tube. Every light fixture. Everything." She gazed down upon her lifeless body through a camera on the ceiling. "Thaddeus, would you mind taking the trash out? It's starting to smell." Thaddeus nodded. With some difficulty, he pried his feet from the spots on the floor to which they were nailed. With the care and precision one would expect from an executive strategy coordinator, he nodded, lovingly took up her body, and carried it to the elevator. Caroline would have gained a sort of vain pleasure from seeing such a physically attractive man carry her in such a delicate way, but the fact that he had no soul prevented her from gaining anything other than a vague electronic queasiness. "I meant you, not me, you dimwit," she chided once Thaddeus was out of earshot. Caroline then decided to see what Hugh was doing. He was, apparently, having a conniption fit over by his vast table of levers, buttons, so on and so forth. "Hugh?" she asked.

"Yes, my sweet?"

What was running through that pipe over there? Neurotoxin? Perfect.

"I just wanted to thank you for doing this. Being a robot is much preferable to dying of leukemia."

"You're welcome!" He took a bow. "And you're not a robot, despite your mechanical likeness. You are still everything you were before. You are still human." He stood there, smiling ecstatically for a couple seconds. But as he stood, his smile began to disappear. His breathing became uneven, and he fell to his knees in pain, groaning. Hands flailed wildly to his neck, then crawled up his face in short, convulsive jolts before flying to the floor to support his weight. His elbows were next to give way after his knees, and, finally, he landed in a messy heap on his back. "No, actually, I lied. You're not," he managed, his voice a volatile wheeze. Then he smiled, and sighed, and lay there in a perpetual grin.

GLaDOS gazed with satisfaction at the body. "Back in Black" was playing over the intercom.


End file.
